


Bespoke

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: Refraction [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For someone who could meticulously plan every detail of a software rollout, network upgrade, or covert operation, Q was woefully terrible at managing other facets of his life as a director at MI6 — in this case, a black tie affair. Thankfully, he had James Bond to help him. Too bad James isn't even in the UK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hedwig-Dordt](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hedwig-Dordt).



> Betaed by the lovely Jennybel75, who loves some good clothing porn as much as the rest of us! And we couldn't have written this without the invaluable resource The Black Tie Guide (www.blacktieguide.com), the definitive guide to classic formal menswear.
> 
> According to The Black Tie Guide's terminology section, we've used the following terms:
> 
> American = British  
> Tuxedo = Dinner Suit  
> Vest = Waistcoat  
> Pants = Trousers  
> Underwear = Pants  
> Suspenders = Braces  
> Formal Wear = Formal Dress
> 
> For more info, see: http://www.blacktieguide.com/Introduction/Intro_Instructions.htm

Danielle breezed into Q’s office with a deep sigh. “You know, sir, I can’t help but think that all those meetings do have a bright side,” she announced without preamble as she came right to Q’s workstation. She set a stack of mail — the old-fashioned paper kind — on the desk just above his mousepad. “ _Somebody’s_ going to have a lovely evening.”

Q looked up from his computer just long enough to see that Danielle was waving what appeared to be an absurdly-formal looking invitation. He frowned at the ornate script writing and red wax seal. “Not likely. I’ll fake an illness. I’ll _get_ some horrid disease if I have to.” He frowned and looked back down at his data.

Danielle _tsked_ at him and tapped the corner of the invitation on the keyboard, getting in the way of his fingers. “All the branch directors got them, and Himself has declared that there will be no sick days, vacation requests, or medical emergencies short of lost limbs — and that _doesn’t_ include a misplaced prosthetic, so even our good doctor from Medical R &D will be attending. I’d offer to be your date, but god knows this is right up 007’s street.”

With a sudden jolt of fear, Q sat up straight in his chair. “Oh god. Oh no. It’s a _plus one_ event?” Sudden plans for destroying not only the physical invitation (by fire, preferably), but any memos that might have been emailed to staff as well flashed through his mind. Bond had been trying, mercifully unsuccessfully, for months now to get Q into formalwear. “007 doesn’t know about this yet, does he?”

“Given that 007 is somewhere in Stockholm, I’d imagine it takes a bit of time to forward the mail there.” She gave him a pitying smile and a pat on the arm. “But no, only the directors were invited. It’s a bit above 007’s pay grade, except as your plus one — if you’ll notice the seal.”

Even more horrified, Q examined the seal, only to decide that wax was a ridiculously archaic tradition best replaced by holographic labels. He extracted the invitation, noting the thick cream-coloured cardstock and overly ornate writing that was probably chosen for _subtlety_ or _nuance_ or the like.

Oh. There was the seal, replicated at the bottom. And though Q had no idea of heraldry, his stomach dropped. This was above _his_ pay grade. Had M missed the memo that Q had lived half his teenage years _in the London Underground?_

He stared at the invitation, dreaming up and discarding a dozen plans for getting out of the event. Any well-timed illness would be suspect, and MI6’s own medical branch was fairly brilliant at patching up their people just long enough to get the job done. If he went through with any of the less physically devastating plans, chances were high that not only would he be sick, he’d be sick and still forced to attend the event.

He looked up at Danielle with a resigned frown. “Is there someone on staff who teaches the identification and proper use of fancy cutlery and table linens?”

She gave him another sympathetic smile and pat on the arm. “I’ll see what we can do, sir,” she promised.

 

~~~

 

Bond blew out smoke at the hotel ceiling and smiled to himself as Q answered on the first ring. “Is the line secure?” he asked — unnecessarily, probably, but they had their own policies, most of which came into being after Q learned precisely why it was unwise to take a call from Bond on speaker with guests in his office.

Especially after Danielle had simply said, “I’m glad you boys are happy, but please excuse me,” and left the office.

Q’s chuckle was confirmation enough, but he said “Yes, Bond, the line is secure.”

“Good.” Bond grinned and took another drag. “So, are you remembering to eat and sleep, and why aren’t you naked yet?”

“Who says I’m not?” Q challenged, though the familiar zap of spot welder hitting copper told Bond he was just being playful. If Q was working on circuitry, he was almost certainly in pyjama bottoms at the very least.

“You forgot the parts about eating and sleeping. Really, Q, do I need to send Moneypenny to check up on you twice a day as if you’re a housecat? Though god knows you practically are,” he said, his smile turning fond. “Without the shedding, of course.”

The sudden, very loud crunch of an apple filled Bond’s Bluetooth earpiece. “Bringing the imagery of loose tufts of hair all over the place is not exactly a promising start to the evening, Bond.” Q gave an exaggerated swallow and another loud crunch before the sound of the welder resumed. “How is Stockholm?”

“Tedious. I’m lonely and bored,” Bond hinted. Strongly. He rolled over and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table, thinking he’d be far more comfortable in _his_ bed. Or the sofa that Q had grown to love. “If I had a cat _here_ , I’d be petting him, you know...”

“Well, I might just have the sort of topic that will warm you in your cold Swedish hotel,” Q said. “Are you comfortable? This might take a while.” Q’s voice was still playful rather than seductive, but that wasn’t odd. What was odd, perhaps even a touch concerning, was the fact that Q wasn’t putting down his torch.

Bond sat up on the edge of the bed. “I’m listening,” he said, keeping his voice light and playful. He tapped another cigarette out of the box but didn’t light it yet. He walked to the window instead and looked out, thinking a bit bleakly that he could identify far too many international cities solely by the night skyline.

“Soft black fabric will be involved. Maybe even silk, if that’s your preference.” Q started. “You like silk, don’t you, Bond?”

The worry faded as Bond closed his eyes, thinking of how frequently he’d been able to coax Q into the black silk blindfold, now that Q’s childhood fears were easing. He was a delight to surprise. “You know I do,” he answered, knowing Q could hear his grin.

“Hmmm...” Q’s voice dropped an octave. The sound of the torch hitting the counter filtered through, followed by the soft shuffle of Q moving away from wherever he was working. “I was thinking about trying something new. Something a little more... restrictive than I would normally go for. Perhaps white silk, rather than black.”

_Shibari?_ Bond wondered. The silk could be problematic — it tended to slip, unless the proper type was used — but Q hadn’t expressed a bit of interest in bondage since that casually mentioned hint on their first date. Then again, it didn’t have to be _secure_. Just picturing the stark contrast of brilliant white rope against Q’s pale skin and the shock of colour that was his primary tattoo...

“I’m listening,” he prompted.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want it to be too easy for you,” Q continued, the sound of cotton sliding on leather signalling his settling onto their couch. “Fasteners of some sort. Pearl, perhaps; maybe metal? I haven’t quite decided yet. Do you have an opinion?”

Abruptly baffled, Bond held back from answering, trying to fit everything together. Q was adventurous, within some unusual parameters, but... “You’re not looking up some sort of internet checklist, are you?” Bond asked uncertainly. He was all for experimentation, but really. Even he had limits.

A sudden, familiar fit of giggles flooded their connection. “Oh, god,” Q said a bit breathlessly, trying unsuccessfully to bring himself under control. “I’m so sorry. I thought I could turn this into some incredibly kinky phone sex, but I’m afraid that my vocabulary and inexperience in such matters is far too limited.” Q broke into another soft peal of laughter. “I really did try. I have to get some points for that.”

Bond gave in and lit the cigarette, anticipating that he’d need it. “All right, troublemaker,” he said, trying for gruff and stern, but falling short. “What have you done this time, and how many people am I going to need to shoot?”

“I’d turn you loose on them if I could, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be very wise,” Q said merrily between barely suppressed chuckles. “There is some ridiculous formal event that I’m required to attend coming up in a few weeks, and the only thing that will make it bearable is you staring lustfully at me in formal wear throughout the whole ordeal. So I thought it only fair that you should be the one to pick it out.” Q paused. “Well, I mean, as long as you don’t mind going as my plus one.”

Bond’s sigh of relief faded into silence as his grin returned, this time with a feral edge. Q insisted his wardrobe was subtly fashionable, and while the brands and material had improved over the last few months, he’d clung solidly to a palette that did nothing for him, to the point where Bond was seriously considering firebombing his own wardrobe — a worthy sacrifice, since it would force Q to start from scratch as well.

“Not Dunhill,” he said at once, thinking of Q’s sleek build. Dunhill was too solidly conservative and classic. Unless he was going to get a respectable haircut — which was definitely not an option, in Bond’s opinion of late — he’d look absurd in something so rigidly traditional. Satin-faced shawl collar, not black but midnight blue. Black would be too stark with Q’s hair and complexion.

A thin flicker of panic passed through him as Q’s mention of the timing filtered through his mental images. ‘A few weeks’ could be anything from three to nine, and it would take at least four to have anything properly made, unless Bond arranged for rush service. If it was three, he’d pay whatever was necessary, even if he had to rob a bloody bank to afford it.

The image of Q _renting_ a dinner jacket from some horrid chav wedding shop, with matching coloured satin bow tie and cummerbund, was enough to make Bond want to shoot himself.

“I’ll make all the arrangements,” he said, pushing this to the top of the to-do list for the morning. Surveillance meant he could make phone calls — and he could certainly trust at least some people back home to help. Danielle, for instance, wouldn’t allow Q to go astray.

Q sighed in obvious relief. “Thank you. I’m so sick of trying to figure out the nuances, I don’t even care if you send me something that makes me look like a steamrolled penguin.” Bond could hear shuffling that he soon realised was Q settling into the couch, pulling the quilt over himself. “But I still don’t know what to do about the cutlery. The forks all look the same to me.”

Bond flinched. “I’ll... work something out,” he said, wondering if he could hire an emergency governess for an over-thirty.

 

~~~

 

Bond was a manipulative bastard, Q decided after his first — _first_ — fitting. Yes, the tailor was knowledgeable and happy to explain everything he was doing in agonising detail, but by the end of it, Q felt more like furniture being reupholstered than a man getting a suit. What was wrong with finding a dinner suit that mostly fit, and then having the cuffs and waist altered?

Apparently a great deal, as not just Bond but Danielle also explained. Stuck in Stockholm, Bond had elected Danielle to be his proxy, a job which she’d taken on with relish. So as she sat there sipping tea and chatting with the tailor about fabrics, Q stood very still, trying not to stab the tailor with his own pins. Not that a single one ever touched his skin, but still. He hated strangers being close enough to touch him, let alone actually touching him. And touching him while wielding objects he was more used to thinking of as instruments of torture rather than the simple pins they were actually invented to be. At one point, despite the shocked look the tailor gave him, he simply had to retrieve his iPod and blast Eminem loud enough to drown out the sound of Danielle and the tailor conferring.

He had choice words for Bond, the night after his first fitting. And more choice words when the tailor called back to call him in for a second fitting and the suggestion that ‘sir consider the subtle nuances of accessories’.

No doubt ‘sir’ already had, and had forwarded the list on to Danielle.

“Christ, finally the bastard’s here,” Bond muttered in Q’s earwig as he grudgingly allowed the tailor to help him into a half-assembled dinner suit that wasn’t black at all.

“Is it supposed to be blue?” he asked, feeling a pang of anxiety. If the tailor got the colour wrong, they’d have to do this all over again.

“Yes, sir,” Danielle said. “Identity confirmed?”

“Confirmed. There’s the bloody scar on his face,” Bond said, sounding relieved. “Can’t I just shoot the bastard now and come home?”

“Negative,” Danielle scolded. Without missing a beat, she looked up from her tablet and said, “That waistcoat, yes, please.”

“An excellent choice,” the tailor agreed, and inflicted yet another layer of fabric on Q’s body. Q gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, almost wishing Bond weren’t on the comms so he could drown everything out with what he’d come to call his “de-stressing” playlist.

“White braces?” Bond asked.

“Yes,” Danielle and Q both answered.

Bond chuckled. “All right. Three more going in with him. Two bodyguard — _Well..._ ” He suddenly sounded satisfied. “Sending a picture. Need an immediate ID.”

Q heard Danielle tapping on her tablet. “Stand by,” she told Bond.

The tailor motioned for Q to button the waistcoat — which seemed less a waistcoat and more a halter top, given that it was entirely backless except for straps at the waist and neck.

“How does the shawl collar look?” Bond asked. _Shawl_ _collar?_ Q wondered.

“We’re not there yet,” Danielle said. Then she added, “Oh. Well that’s fascinating. Sending you a dossier. I believe — yes, that’s another one we want, Bond. Will you require assistance?”

“Negative. I have some ideas.”

“Not too creative, please.”

Bond laughed. At least someone was having fun, Q bleakly thought as the tailor helped him into a midnight blue jacket held together by threads and wishful thinking.

Danielle walked over to where Q stood on a low pedestal. He’d tried on half a dozen pairs of nearly identical black shoes before Danielle and the tailor agreed on one. She looked him over, from his new shoes to the collar of his shirt, and said, “I’m not certain about the black studs.”

The tailor stared thoughtfully at them. “Classic, but... He _is_ contemporary, isn’t he?” he asked, flicking a glance at Q’s hair. “Not gold.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Danielle agreed, just as Bond said, “Not bloody likely. With his complexion?” Q continued to stare, feeling for one horrible moment absolutely, and ridiculously, foolish.

“Mother-of-pearl?” the tailor suggested.

The gunfire in Q’s earwig drowned out Danielle’s response, though he saw her nod. Resigned, he started undoing the row of studs holding his shirt closed, wondering what the hell was wrong with perfectly normal buttons.

 

~~~

 

A thwarted kidnapping attempt — with Bond as the would-be kidnapper — and the need to schedule a quick international plane ride for Bond prevented Q from making the scheduled final fitting. After staying awake to guide Bond through forty-two hours of prep, ending in a successful second attempt, Q missed the make-up appointment by going down to Medical to steal the use of a hospital bed. It was more comfortable than any of the office sofas he could easily access. He slept for fifteen solid hours and woke bleary-eyed to the sound of sharp rapping on the door.

“Sir?” Danielle called over the room intercom. “Bit of a problem.”

Visions of a plane with his lover on it crashing into the ocean flitting through his still-sleepy mind, and Q sat up so suddenly that his vision blacked out in a brief head rush. “Is Bond all right?” he asked, swinging his legs over the cot and rushing to yank open the door. He knew he must have looked a bit mad, bed-hair sticking out unattractively and clothes even more rumpled than normal, but Danielle was used to it.

“He’s fine,” she said immediately, holding up a hand. She touched his arm — the most he’d tolerate, and only from very few people — and said, “It’s an operational issue. Bond’s primary finally broke and gave us the intel we needed. Tonight’s dinner and performance are now at an elevated threat level.”

“Oh,” Q answered, blinking at her as he processed. He wondered at the odds. “Any chance it should be cancelled?” he asked, keeping his voice smoothly professional rather than hopeful. If Bond was on high alert, he wouldn’t be spending nearly enough time admiring Q in his suit, which defeated the purpose entirely.

“No, but I’m afraid we’re calling in as many of the agents as we can pull in from the field. They’ll be working the event. I’m sending Eve with you for your pickup. I need to provide support.”

“What?” Q couldn’t muster the courage to actually glare at Danielle, but he tried. He liked Eve, but Q had been counting on Bond’s guidance to get him through the nuances of upper-crust interactions to which he’d be otherwise blind. From what he’d learned about party etiquette from Bond so far, the salad versus dinner fork issue was the least of his concerns. “Wouldn’t it be wise to have him actually inside the event to keep an eye on the department heads?”

“He’ll be there, but he can’t be seen. We’re issuing him and 006 the silenced sniper rifles that just made it through field testing. M would like the threat eliminated as quietly as we can, and putting Bond and Trevelyan at a dinner table with handguns is anything but quiet,” Danielle said calmly.

_Alec_ was going to be there? It just got better and better. Q let himself deflate against the doorway, knowing there was absolutely no way out of this now. He wondered if Bond had asked the tailor to add one of those special hidden-gun pockets Bond himself was so fond of. “Has Eve been informed? Does she have appropriate attire already?”

Danielle gave him a _look_. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ve made all the arrangements,” she told him sympathetically. “And I assumed you’d prefer Eve to drive, rather than hiring a driver? You understand that the Harley is inappropriate...”

“What if I take off the smoke and grenade launchers? You know what, I’ll just take the Tube. No need to inconvenience Moneypenny.” The force of Danielle’s stern disapproval was nearly physical — Q involuntarily straightened, feeling like a child being scolded for petulance. “But I will, of course, follow your suggestion. Thank you for all your help, Danielle.” Q smiled and patted her hand awkwardly. He thought she knew him well enough to take it for the grand gesture it was.

She beamed at him and covered his hand with her own for a moment. “If you relax, I think you might find you’ll enjoy it. And here,” she added, dipping a hand into the pocket of her suit jacket. She produced an earwig and passed it to him subtly. “Don’t let anyone hear you working tonight.”

Q stared at the earwig before returning her look of delight. “I owe you, Danielle. If you ever need help with your credit rating or hiding a body, let me know.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Range check?” Bond asked, followed by, “Lay out the pieces, Q.”

Q spread everything out on the bed — the accessories, anyway. The jacket, shirt, waistcoat, and trousers were still individually bagged, hanging in the wardrobe. “Done,” he said, wishing he’d charged the earwig earlier. Danielle must have taken it from stores earlier that morning, and the battery had been almost dead.

“Good. Next marker,” Bond said. “Silk pants, Q.”

“James!” Q heard Alec say distantly.

Bond laughed. “Wouldn’t want lines visible, would we, Alec?”

“Exactly what do I need to threaten you with to keep you from saying anything about my underwear, while Alec can hear you, ever again?” Q muttered darkly. “Wearing my Wonder Woman socks with this ridiculous outfit? Using a clip-on bow tie instead?”

Bond’s answering curse was in low, vicious Russian. Q heard Alec let out an admiring whistle. Through gritted teeth, Bond said, “Do and I’ll send you home with Eve. Christ, Q, that’s practically blasphemy.”

“Do you realise that you used the idea of sending me home _as a threat_ , right? You’re slipping, Bond,” Q said, though his attempt at sharp melted into amusement. “I haven’t actually ever worn formal shoes with silk socks before. Will my feet slip around in them? Should I have practised?”

“You broke the shoes in — Got it, Alec. Next marker — like I told you? And you should have sock suspenders. Do you?”

Q didn’t answer, opting instead to let the sounds of him digging through the array of packing laid out on his bed fill Bond’s (and Alec’s) ear. “This isn’t a suit. It’s a bloody puzzle — honestly,” he muttered, wondering what sort of self-respecting men’s clothing shop actually used tissue paper. The shoe box fell with a thump, landing on his toe, and Q cursed. Then he let out a triumphant noise as the elastic bands were revealed under where the shoebox had just been. “Suspenders. Check.”

“Over the calf, fix to the top of the socks. The _thin black silk_ socks. Not your bloody patterned ones,” Bond muttered, though he couldn’t quite hide the smirk Q heard in his voice. “Let’s move over there, Alec.”

“Bloody catwalks,” Q heard Alec snap.

Q sat on the bed and slid the socks on, wiggling his toes in the unexpectedly comfortable and smooth fabric. “I actually quite like these, I think,” he said with some surprise. He was still worried that smooth socks inside slick shoes meant he would be sliding around, but inside his more comfortable loafers they’d be quite pleasant. “I don’t suppose they make them in a variety of more interesting patterns?” he asked as he held up the suspenders to get a good look at them. “You know, with a few modifications, sock suspenders could actually be quite useful things. They’d need stronger fabric, maybe a metal-polymer blend, and industrial strength clips, but I can imagine —”

“Q.”

Q huffed as he snapped them into place over the silk. “Uh, they’re attached to the socks. Now where do the other ends go?” he asked somewhat suspiciously.

Bond’s cough was a little too amused for Q’s liking. “Around your calf. You might have to detach them and slip them on.”

“Is our mission interrupting your date?” Alec asked loudly, probably talking right in Bond’s ear.

“Be glad he’s not bringing me,” Bond said, and laughed. “Think of the view you’ll have of Eve from up here.”

“Oh, right. Carry on then, mates,” Alec added.

Bond snickered. “Right then. Shirt next, Q.”

“I seem to be missing the vest,” Q said, digging through the packages. “Just give me a tick to find it.” Q pushed aside layers of tissues and fabric, looking for the simple cotton he assumed came between him and stiff collared shirt.

“Find it? You _did_ pick up the shirt, didn’t you?” Bond asked, sounding distressed. “Yes, fine. Next range. Christ, I can send Eve there now to help, Q.”

“Absolutely not!” Q’s hands clenched at the thought of Eve seeing him in sock suspenders and black silk pants. “This is ridiculous. Why would they assume one simply _knows_ these things? I’ve seen tech less complicated with four pages of instructions!” Q closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no sense in yelling at Bond over clothing.

“I’m sorry,” he said more calmly, standing. “I picked up everything the tailor had ready for me. Let me just grab a vest from my dresser.”

“No! No, not you, Alec. Q. You’ll ruin the lay of the shirt and jacket with a vest. Just put the shirt on.”

Q snapped his mouth shut to refrain from saying anything else that was potentially stupid. He pulled the shirt on, not quite sure if he hated or liked the unfamiliar feeling of voile linen being dragged across his skin. The pleated front was slightly stiff, but now that he had it on, he could understand why a vest wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t thin enough to be seen through. He quickly buttoned the bottom part, and paused only to dig through the packages to pull out the mother-of-pearl studs. Fortunately, he had actually paid attention when they’d showed him how they threaded through the top three eyelets, and repeated the action flawlessly.

“Cufflinks next, or do I wait until the jacket is on?” he asked stiffly.

“Put them on. Then the trousers. There’ll be a tab on the shirt that fixes to a button on the trousers to keep the shirt from riding up,” Bond answered quickly, before he went back to work with Alec.

The cufflinks were easy only because Q was essentially ambidextrous. Before Bond, he’d thought cufflinks had one decorative bit and a T-bar. Now, he wasn’t surprised to find two decorative faces connected by a couple of tiny chain links. He managed to fix them in place, though the cuffs felt insecure and awkward. Had he really blotted all of this from his memory of the second fitting?

He pulled on the trousers next, feeling irrationally better once he was mostly dressed. Surprisingly, he was able to move comfortably, and he suspected that Bond had spoken privately with the tailor. None of his other suits fit this well, but he had the feeling that he’d be able to go at a full-out run in these without risking the seams splitting. He found the button and shirt tab and got everything in place, with a bit of twisting.

“What next?”

Bond didn’t answer immediately. “Marked. Bad line of sight here. Want to move?” he asked. Then he asked Q, “Everything fits?”

“Perfectly,” Q answered, stretching and bending a bit just to get a feel for his range of motion. “Perhaps the bloody menace with the pins was necessary after all,” he said, which was as close as he’d come to admitting that the tailoring had been a worthy time investment after all.

“Of course he was,” Bond said smugly. “No, bugger going around. Just jump. Waistcoat next, Q, and hold a moment. Need to get to the next catwalk over.”

Q resisted asking about the details of what they were doing and whether they needed anything — he trusted Danielle completely, but some things were just habit. He pulled the waistcoat over, still imagining that it more rightfully belonged in a porn shop than a suit shop, scrap of fabric with elastic bits that it was.

Only when he heard Bond confirm their safe arrival did he ask, “Are you sure about this, Bond? It’s entirely backless. I thought that was just for the fitting.”

“It’s meant to cover the — Oh, damn,” Bond said. “Sorry, Q, bit distracted here. Braces, then waistcoat — which is meant to cover the waistband. Once your jacket’s buttoned, no hint of white should show below the button. This is better, Alec.”

Q smirked as he exchanged the waistcoat for the braces, thinking of the delightful ways he might be able to use bits and pieces of the outfit in other, less formal ways. “It’s a good thing Alec’s on the line, Bond,” he said quietly. “I’d hate to distract you from the mission with my ideas for... modifications, shall we say... using these braces.”

Bond huffed out a laugh. “I’d give some ideas of my own, but the last thing we want is to distract 006.”

“Don’t you bloody start,” Alec warned loudly.

Q chuckled and finished hooking the braces into place. They were unusually soft and took a bit of adjusting to get right. “And the waistcoat too, of course. Provocative piece of clothing, this.” Careful not to twist it out of shape, he slipped into it, grinning. “The back of the shirt is probably light enough that you’d just see the tattoos through the fabric.”

“I’ll let you know later,” Bond promised quietly.

“You damn well better,” Q responded in a voice that could be interpreted as either seduction or threatening, depending on one’s outlook. With Bond, the two were often interchangeable. “I’m not wearing this damn thing for Eve’s sake. I’d better get something out of it.”

“If she gets stroppy with you, just ask her how she likes the view of Tanner’s office from her desk.”

“Bond!” he snapped, feeling a blush threaten under his incredibly white collar. Then a sudden, horrific thought lodged itself in his brain, and he had to ask. “She’s not going to be wearing a comm, is she?” he asked, knowing he’d never make it through the dinner gracefully if he had to listen to Bond, Alec, _and_ Eve all banter back and forth.

“She’s not a field agent anymore,” Bond said, his voice absolutely neutral. “Let’s switch a bit, Alec. Take the scope. You learned how to properly knot the tie, Q?”

Q wasn’t about to admit that he’d actually practised for an indeterminate (seemingly endless) number of hours in front of the bathroom mirror until he’d finally secured it perfectly several times in a row, leaving no room for Bond to be disappointed. “Of course,” he said primly, sliding the black satin into place. The practice paid off, and his fingers didn’t falter as he manipulated the batwing strip of fabric into its perfect configuration. “Done,” he said smoothly, grinning to himself.

“You’re in the bedroom?” Bond asked, pausing in his work with Alec.

“Yes.”

“Go to the safe. You’ll have to dig around a bit, sorry. There’s an old black box, back right corner.”

For all the smooth, clean lines of his professionally decorated flat, Bond used the safe as a magpie’s nest of shiny objects. It held an array of tokens from Bond’s travels, from guns to medals to jewelry to photographs. His first thought was Bond was sending him for one of his many pairs of cufflinks, but he’d already completed that step.

Q punched in the code and scanned his finger to unlock the door. “Unless you know something I don’t, there isn’t room for even a .22 in this jacket,” he said, picking up the black box. It was surprisingly heavy, but only a few inches on either side and an inch high.

“After the mission in Moscow, Major Boothroyd gave that to me. I want you to have it.”

The box was completely nondescript, but Q took his time in staring at it. For all the time they’d spent together, Boothroyd had never actually given him anything physical. Knowledge, yes. Access to building materials, yes. A measure of stability, yes. But not a token. He held it, unsure, for several moments.

When he finally was able to crack open the box, it wasn’t a small explosive of any sort that Q discovered inside — it was a pocket watch. It was heavy, heavier than it should have been, silver with black tarnish picking out an ornate filigree pattern on the front. The chain was long, with a small button fob on the far end.

Curious, he opened the watch. It looked like a standard gear-driven watch, though the body was a bit too thick. He turned it over and saw a very old engraving in Russian — not something Boothroyd had customised, then. It wasn’t even very good workmanship. The engraving had pierced the back plate.

Directly in the centre? Q sat down on the edge of the bed and held the watch under the bedside lamp. The tiny hole wasn’t incidental, he realised, and he scratched along the edges of the back plate with growing excitement until his nails caught on a hidden lever. The back telescoped out an inch.

“A camera?” he asked, smiling at the thought of Boothroyd’s glee in acquiring what, back then, had been the forefront of Russian spy technology. “Is there a story that goes with it? You don’t have to tell me now. I just...” He rolled the metal around in his hands, smiling. “He always did love his gadgets.”

“I know someone else like that,” Bond said quietly, followed by, more loudly, him reading out a number, presumably to Alec. Then he told Q, “You’re welcome to see if it works, or if there’s even any film in the thing. I’ve worn it, but I didn’t dare take it apart. Which, I’ll have you know, is proof that I haven’t destroyed _everything_ Q Branch has given me.”

The telescoping slid back at a light touch of the lever, and Q laughed. “Proof indeed. I don’t think they make the sort of film it would use anymore, but I’ll get it working for you.” He stood back up and got the watch in the waistcoat pocket, with the fob end over the appropriate button

“I want you to have it,” Bond said. Then he huffed, adding, “I would’ve been there to give you the damn thing or wrap it or something, but — Only nineteen and a fraction, Alec. Too close. Sorry, Q.”

“Thank you,” Q answered softly, carefully placing the box back in the safe. “I wonder if I could wear the waistcoat with some of my other clothes. To work.” He suspected the answer would be no, but the sentiment was what mattered. And, hell, if he had to modify his wardrobe a bit to include waistcoats for the watch — well, maybe that was Bond’s secret master plan anyway.

“Not _that_ waistcoat,” Bond protested. “But if you’d let me — Better, Alec. We’re over forty here. If you’d let me take you to a proper tailor once in a while, we could fix that, Q.”

“Or you could come with me,” Alec said loudly enough for Q to hear. “Not so conservative, but still up to James’ standards.”

“It _might_ suit you better,” Bond complained grudgingly. “Next range, Alec. Q, pocket square. And if you got any colour other than white, we’re going to have words.”

“Don’t worry, Danielle and the pin-wielding menace didn’t bother to ask my input on any of the details whatsoever, so you’ve nothing to fear.” The pocket square was, in fact, white, and Q smiled as he picked it up to feel the fabric. “Is one actually allowed to use it? Or is it simply decorative?”

“You can take it out if someone’s going to bleed to death or if a lady asks. Otherwise, it’s decorative. And if it’s not someone you like, feel free to let them bleed out.”

“Does Eve count as a lady?” Q asked with a chuckle, going over to look at the final pieces left on the bed. Jacket, shoes... The hard part was apparently over.

“Tonight you can convince me to never tell her you asked that question,” Bond said with a wicked little laugh. “Remember, necessities only in the inside pocket. It’s tailored to hold your mobile and earpiece, but for god’s sake, don’t actually wear the damned Bluetooth monstrosity where it’ll be seen. And bring a comb — inside pocket again. Otherwise, you’ll end up looking like your hair lost a fight with a cat, and that look’s for me alone.”

Q flashed to this morning’s interaction with Danielle, but assumed she didn’t count. He decided to put the shoes on first, save him the trouble of bending over in the jacket. He hadn’t, in fact, broken the shoes in; in the chaos of Bond’s last days in Sweden, he’d forgotten all about them, and then he’d slept through the little time he had left. He wondered if he should put plasters on his heels just in case — to prevent blisters — but imagined Bond criticising him for ‘ruining the lines of the socks’ or something. While the event was supposed to last for at least six hours, only an hour or two would be spent standing. He skipped the plasters and pulled on the shoes — ‘court shoes’ he’d heard Danielle call them, shiny leather with a grosgrain flat bow. He’d never imagined wearing shoes with bows, but they didn’t look too ridiculous. The trouser cuffs came right down to the tops of the shoes, and the bows sort of blended in and went unseen.

Once the shoes were on, it was time for the jacket. Like the trousers, it was a very dark midnight blue, with a black satin accent on the rounded, deep collar. It had a single button in front. He closed it and looked down, verifying that yes, with the waistcoat properly in place, he couldn’t see a hint of the white shirt. He added everything to the pocket as Bond had suggested, and was pleasantly surprised to see that the bulk of them didn’t show through the smooth lines at all.

He spent a few minutes folding the pocket square, wondering why he couldn’t have got one that was stitched into place — or at least ironed. He could only imagine Bond’s reaction to that, so he filed it away to ask later, and idly listened to Bond and Alec discussing the best way to discreetly kill someone at Barbican Hall.

When he was finished, he went to the wardrobe to get the overcoat, and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. _Well_ , he thought, turning to the side and back to the front again. Though he still felt slightly ridiculous, he could concede he didn’t look it. At least Bond would appreciate it.

“The deed is done,” he said, giving himself one last spin in front of the mirror. “I don’t look like a steam-rolled penguin. That’s a relief.”

Bond huffed indignantly. “Uncivilised little heathen. Just for that, I should forbid you from looking in the pockets of the coat.”

“Oh please, don’t even try and pretend you don’t like trying to civilise me,” he said with a grin, pulling the overcoat off the hanger to slide it on. He slowly slid his hands into the pockets, being cautious in case the surprise had sharp edges. Knowing Bond, it could very well be a weapon.

In the right hand pocket, he felt something soft and smooth; in the left, he encountered the very familiar feel of leather. The right pocket proved to have a scarf of narrow white that he suspected was pure silk. The ends were tasselled, and his first very distracted thought was that it would make a perfect blindfold. He blamed that on the contents of the other pocket: thin black leather gloves, smooth and beautifully tailored.

“You know,” he said somewhat breathlessly as he shamelessly fondled the leather gloves, “Danielle gave me a death glare when I argued that I should take the Harley to the event.” He slid his hands inside the gloves, relishing the buttery feeling of the lining against his fingertips and the backs of his hands. “These are amazing. How did you even know my hand size? They fit perfectly.”

“Trade secret. And those are Italian lambskin not meant for a motorcycle. They’re dress gloves, and they’re the only thing you’re going to be wearing by the end of the night —”

_“James!”_

Bond laughed.

“So the scarf is decorative rather than functional?” Q asked with a grin, too far gone in his fantasies of an evening with Bond in the new gloves to care about Alec’s sputter of protest. In hindsight, he thought he probably should have put the scarf on first, to better appreciate the silk. He rubbed his cheek against it instead before carefully laying it under the coat’s collar.

“Consider it homework to find a use for it,” Bond challenged. “Is it comfortable? How do you look?”

Q stared at the reflection of himself in the wardrobe mirror, for a moment completely at a loss for words. Despite months of settling into his role at MI6 and living with Bond, he still had a morning habit of standing in front of this very mirror to look at his scars and tattoo and wild hair, the slightly feral edge to his half-conscious mind on full display before rationality kicked in. He was used to this mirror showing Jack, not the Quartermaster.

He stood a little straighter and grinned, suddenly imagining how the people in his past would react if he were to visit them now, dressed like this. He pictured the shocked and disbelieving looks his former criminal family would give him, if they would even recognise him at all. He pictured a look of happy surprise on Dr. Baker’s face. Finally, gently tapping the watch, he thought about the proud grin Boothroyd might give him while straightening his lapels.

“I have a sudden to urge to show up on several old acquaintances’ doorsteps, actually. I wonder if they’d even recognise me.” Q hoped his grin was audible in his words. “You’ll enjoy the effect immensely, I think.”

“And you didn’t believe me three months ago,” Bond complained fondly. “Just do one thing for me: stay with Eve tonight. If our target isn’t alone or if he gets past us, she’s under orders to get you out safely.”

“Mhm.” Q hummed his agreement absently, suddenly remembering that Eve was going to be there any minute, and he was going to need his iPod for this. “As soon as she gets here, I’m going to have to disconnect. You’ve seen Eve’s driving. Whether she’s in a third world country or the middle of London, she handles her car like she’s in combat.” Q shuddered. He’d prepared a playlist for this particular torture — it was full of angry but stupidly empowering Detroit-style rap for him this trip. He hoped his earbuds were up to the task.

“I trust her driving,” Bond said simply.

“You know damn well it’s not about the driving,” Q muttered. He went with the tiny iPod nano because it could be clipped to his jacket, freeing his hands. “You’re lucky there is a major incentive for me to get through this evening. The suit plus getting in a car with Moneypenny behind the wheel? No chance of dancing with you? I actually thought about giving myself the stomach flu just to get out of it. They’ve got some really interesting experimental strains with very short incubation periods down in Bio.”

“Do that and M will have you dragged to the event anyway, even if he has to prop up your body in the chair. All you need is to get through a few hours, and then either the mission’s a bust or we’ll have our target. Either way, I’m skipping the debriefing.”

“Really James? You astonish me.” Alec said loudly.

“Are you saying you’re not?”

Alec laughed. “Eve won’t have a date for drinks after the party. And you know she has a thing for Double O’s who know how to wield their weapon.”

A text vibrated Q’s mobile from where it was discreetly tucked inside the jacket. He pulled it out and read Moneypenny’s warning of her imminent arrival. He took several deep breaths and shook himself out as if he we bracing for a fight rather than a twenty-minute car ride.

“Okay. Switching to the earwig,” he said, hurrying to the charger in the office. It was one of the less-ornate field models, automatically synced to the op’s frequency, rather than the command frequency Q would normally use to communicate with his own internal team. Without the complicated switches, it would be almost entirely hidden in his ear canal. M wouldn’t notice.

He disconnected the Bluetooth, hid it in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket, and tested the comms. When both Alec and Bond verified that they could hear him, he sent Moneypenny a text to let her know that he’d be down shortly.

“I’m offline for the trip there,” he told Bond reluctantly. He wanted to stay in contact, but he needed the distraction of loud music — in both ears.

“Acknowledged,” Bond said, and though his voice was professional and clipped, Q imagined he could hear the affection behind it.

Q took the earwig back out and put it carefully in one of his outside pockets. He’d replace it as soon as Eve parked or handed the car over to a valet.

“Okay,” he huffed. “I can do this. Twenty minutes. No problem. OK.” For perhaps the tenth time tonight, Q wished he could have a Valium or two, but he didn’t want to risk being less than fully alert if something went wrong. “Okay,” he huffed one last time, stuffing the earbuds into his ears. He skipped forward thirty seconds into the first song in his playlist to make sure he’d picked a pair of earbuds that actually worked, cranking the volume up as high as the device would let him. The angry sounds of _Cinderella Man_ filled his ears, and he paused it, satisfied.

It took him only a moment to find his tablet and set the security systems, and even the lift refused to aid in his hesitation — it arrived mere moments after Q hit the call button.

He could feel the doorman’s eyes on him as walked purposefully through the lobby, but he didn’t stop to talk. He needed to keep going, or he might freeze up.

He pushed his way through the doors and saw Eve had pulled up to the double yellow lines outside the door. She drove a crimson red Lexus GS450 that he knew had been through the Q Branch garage, since she occasionally acted as a driver for M.

Q made himself go right to the car, open the door, and get into the seat. He realised that his new gloves were going to be useful in more ways than one; they gave him the opportunity to focus on a sensation other than the interior of the car. In fact, the supple lambskin on his fingertips — which, coincidentally, held the highest concentration of nerve endings for anywhere in the body — was going to be an excellent distraction.

Eve herself was in a dress that might well have been chosen to match, a simple crimson red gown that left her arms and shoulders bare. It had a low collar accented with long, intricate gold earrings that hung almost to her shoulders. Her hair was done up in complicated braids. Q had to admit that if he at all liked women, she would have caught his eye just for how regal she looked.

“Are you sure you’re going to make it? I’m not going to hold back for you. I don’t even know if I’m capable of going the speed limit,” she asked with a grin. Then her smile turned gentler as she said, “Bond told me to take care with you, though not in quite such polite words.”

He strapped himself in and smiled back at her. “Don’t take it personally. I don’t trust the combination of imperfect mechanics flying along an imperfect road full of imperfect drivers and other distractions,” Q said with a small smile. “Hazard of being an engineer with an excellent imagination and a head for statistics. And though I accept that you’re nearly as good a combat driver as Bond, I’m still not going to look.” He put his earbuds back in as Eve laughed and pulled into traffic.


	3. Chapter 3

“First group of assets approaching the building.”

At the expected signal, Bond crushed his cigarette against his boot. He gave Alec the ‘ready’ signal. At Alec’s nod, they broke from where they’d been sitting in a corner, high up above the audience, and ran lightly in separate directions to cover the marked entries. Four other field agents were up there with them, but Bond and Alec were the ones covering the most likely entry points, based on Bond’s interrogation of his informant. This had caused no small problem for the theatre; personnel had scrambled for three hours to do arcane things with lights that would normally be manually operated by personnel in the catwalks.

“007 in position,” Bond reported softly as he got comfortable — well, as comfortable as possible — on the black jacket he’d laid out over the grating. He stretched flat on his stomach, close to where he had the sniper rifle somewhat precariously balanced on small sandbags, a bipod, and creatively placed cable ties. It was aimed down at an unnatural angle that would cause too much of a strain for him to support for any period of time.

“006 in position,” Alec said a moment later. He’d had farther to run than Bond.

“Confirmed,” Danielle said. “Other agents report ready status.”

“007 confirms range to most likely target,” Bond said, using field glasses to double-check the work they’d done earlier.

“Show-off,” Alec muttered, and Bond grinned. It was another thirty seconds before Alec said, “006 confirms range.”

“Very well, gentlemen,” Danielle answered. “HQ to standby. Will update with further information as needed.”

Bond and Alec both acknowledged, and the earwig went silent. Sighing to himself, Bond scanned the people entering the theatre, focusing on the slowly filling box seats at the centre back. The mission briefing Danielle sent to his phone had ‘accidentally’ included a full seating chart, not just the box where the primary assets to be protected would be seated, and Bond had to resist the impulse to look for Q.

 

~~~

 

The cocktail hour had been tolerable only because of Eve’s presence at Q’s side. She’d kept up a constant, soft murmur of introductions, facts, and trivia, warning Q whenever anyone significant approached. Dinner had been a more difficult affair, but he’d scraped through it by keeping an eye on Eve’s table manners, surreptitiously listening to Bond and Alec banter as they scouted every inch of Barbican Hall. Q was actually calmer after dinner, and though he relied on his music to keep him distracted, the drive to the theatre wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. Maybe he was getting past his fears after all.

Eve warned him several seconds before they arrived at the hall by reaching over over to unplug his headphones. He tucked the iPod discreetly out of sight and grinned at her as they slowly inched their way through the valet line, waiting to be let out.

“This isn’t so bad, is it?” Even asked, smiling, petting the wheel of her car the way a normal person might with a cat. “Not even a single close call, which might be a record for me.”

“Don’t ruin it,” he warned as he pulled the earwig back out of his pocket for a second time. He tucked the device discreetly into his ear, though by now the loudness of the music left his ears ringing enough to make hearing anything difficult at the moment. Before he had a chance to verbally check in with Bond, however, his door was pulled open.

“Welcome to Barbican Hall, sir,” a young man said with a practised smile.

Q stepped out and resisted the urge to tug at his clothing. “Thank you.”

He walked over to Eve and took her arm like he’d seen the distinguished actors in some of Bond’s old movies do. “Shall we?”

Eve gave him a charmed, warm smile and took his arm, not standing as closely as she might have done. Over her dress she wore a long, stylish coat in black wool and a red cashmere scarf that precisely matched her gown. “You’re wasted on James, you know. If he doesn’t properly appreciate you, just tell me and I’ll deal with him.”

“Something tells me that your motivations may not be entirely unselfish,” Q responded, finally able to see her outfit as a cohesive and lovely combination of red silk and gold. From earrings to dress to matching scarf and shoes, the entire ensemble bore a familiar stamp. “I don’t suppose you had any help putting together that outfit?”

Eve’s abrupt glance down at herself told Q everything he needed to know. She smiled, a bit embarrassed, and said, “Perhaps a bit.”

“Don’t get used to it. If Bond suggests we ever go wardrobe hunting as a team, I’m afraid I’ll never escape with my dignity intact.” Q briefly imagined the jokes and innuendo that such an afternoon would bring and barely suppressed a shudder.

With a soft laugh, Eve squeezed his arm and said, “If it’s any consolation, I’m more a jeans-and-T-shirt type myself. Secretly, I think that’s what he likes about you.” As they entered the hall, she broke away from Q and removed her coat. “Don’t let him change you. He wants you for _you_.”

“Well, I do have to admit that I think I may develop a thing for waistcoats,” Q leaned over to whisper conspiratorially as they approached the crowd. With heels, Eve was as tall as Q, so he didn’t have to lean far. “But I think there are certain kinds you can wear even with jeans. Call it an evolution of style, not necessarily a significant change.” He brushed his hand against the watch and grinned.

At the door, he handed over their tickets and then went through the metal detector. It picked up his mobile, Bluetooth, and pocket watch, but not the earwig — he smirked at that, since he’d been responsible for the design modifications that rendered it nearly undetectable. On the other side of the metal detector, he and Eve checked their coats and then made their way into the theatre.

He didn’t know if it was M’s doing to separate the MI6 agents and branch leads, but his tickets led Eve and him to the second row of a box left of the stage but still against the back wall of the theatre. He didn’t recognise anyone else in the box, but Eve apparently did, and she smoothed over the awkward greetings.

As much as Q knew that wearing the appropriate attire would mean he wouldn’t stick out, he hadn’t anticipated how differently people would treat him, based solely on his clothing. Though his technicians in Q Branch always treated him with respect (and even a bit of fear), the higher pay-grade personnel that Q himself regularly interacted with (Mallory, Tanner, and the heads of Intel and Communications) tended not to. It wasn’t that they didn’t respect him; they obviously did. But he supposed that the former M’s and former Q’s attitudes around him — that of indulgent-if-stern parents — had rubbed off on those who were also around at the time.

But throughout the cocktail party, dinner, and now here — dressed in a ridiculously expensive outfit with a gorgeous woman on his arm — the branch heads and other guests didn’t even seem to stall at the fact that he looked too young to be among them. It was deeply gratifying in a very unexpected way. Now he really wondered what their reactions would have been if he had been able to bring James instead of Eve. The thought gave his grin an honest edge. He’d seen at least three other same-sex couples at the cocktail party, and they didn’t seem to be the ‘best friends’ type of plus-one dates. He wondered if they’d pick him out as a Double O, or assume that Bond was the branch head and Q the date.

The faint sounds of instruments being tuned weaved in among the conversations, and Q found it a pleasant distraction. He was extremely disappointed that his first symphony experience wasn’t going to be with Bond — at least, not in a traditional way — but there was nothing to be done. He wondered if Bond had seen him yet, and spent a few minutes looking at all the places Bond and Alec might be hiding.

As soon as he looked up at the ceiling, Bond’s voice sounded quietly in the earwig: “Primary asset not yet sighted.”

“Nor here,” Alec said, a yawn only half-hidden in his voice.

“I didn’t have time to familiarise myself with tonight’s production,” he said, glancing at Eve but actually hoping Bond would answer. “I wonder what the performance is tonight?”

“It could be worse, Alec,” Bond said casually over Eve’s answer. “At least it’s the London Symphony Orchestra. Everything they do is good.”

“Better than some bloody guest performance from an American college,” Alec answered.

“Gentlemen,” Danielle scolded, though not as sharply as she might have. “May we please keep radio chatter to relevant topics?”

“It _is_ relevant,” Bond said innocently.

“Would you like to repeat your ranging work, 007, to ensure accuracy?” Danielle threatened.

Bond laughed. “No, ma’am. 007 to radio silence.”

“Same, HQ. 006 silent,” Alec said quickly.

Well, so much for his first symphony experience still being a sort-of date, Q thought. He took a cue from the others as they began to settle into their seats, and gestured for Eve to take hers, taking her program before she sat. He didn’t actually care about who was playing or whose solo was being touted — he just wanted to know how long it was going to last.

Two and a half hours, he eventually determined. Not horrible. Definitely endurable when compared to some of the professional conferences and meetings he’d been forced to attend since taking over Q Branch. Besides, even knowing that Bond was here, in the building, was a comfort.

It wasn’t a traditional date, but really, nothing in their relationship had been traditional so far.

 

~~~

 

To Q’s surprise, the music wasn’t bad, though some of that was Bond’s influence. His music collection (which Q had ripped from a massive CD library taking up space in the living room) ranged from opera to classic rock, and Q had been pleasantly surprised to find at least some duplication with his own collection. While the AC/DC albums weren’t a surprise, the Collide album was. Q wanted to ask, but he was afraid the answer would be that it came from an old girlfriend. While he listened to the symphony, he thought about ways he could educate Bond about some of his favourite bands in return. He couldn’t decide which would be more fun: getting Bond to dance naked with him to _Pandora’s Box_ (as he often did when Bond was gone on mission), or perhaps play _Splitting the Atom_ by Massive Attack as background music to post-mission tension resolution efforts. The thought was a lovely one, and it made the the first part of the performance go by quickly.

There was a brief intermission which Q managed to avoid by remaining in the box. He could have taken advantage of the time to use the loo, but frankly didn’t want to deal with the effort of arranging the tux perfectly again on the way out. He also briefly entertained the idea of following the crowd to the bar, but ruled it out in favour of staying close to where Bond was. He instead pretended to be deeply engrossed in the program while he waited, though his thoughts were still circling around the idea of creative introductions to Q’s playlists. Maybe if he introduced Bond to rap through sex, the good associations would be strong enough that Bond wouldn’t object if he played it quietly while working on his projects.

The crowd started to slowly filter back into the theatre, and Eve returned with the scent of expensive wine and cologne around her. “Hello there, dear,” he said with a smirk as she settled next to him again. “Did someone out there catch your attention? Should I be jealous?”

The faint tinkle of her gold earrings was oddly loud in the hushed room as Eve turned to him with a smirk. “A lady doesn’t tell,” she scolded, patting his arm. “But you wouldn’t have learned that with James. Are you sure we can’t get you a _nice_ boy?”

Q waved his hand dismissively. “Have you ever actually dated a nice boy? Terribly boring and predictable. Usually awful kissers. Not to mention, of course, that they rarely stay that way.”

Eve arched a brow at him and said something that was lost under Alec’s sudden, sharp whisper: “James!”

“Mmm,” Bond growled. “Ready?” Q looked down and smiled at his shoes. He didn’t know which would be better — a quick, quiet resolution that didn’t risk Bond getting injured at all, or a loud chase complete with random gunfire that would ensure an immediate end to the evening.

“Let’s,” Alec said with sudden, fierce joy. Mentally conceding that it was probably far too deeply selfish to risk life and limb of all the talented people in the theatre, Q silently crossed his fingers.

Q anticipated the noise but still flinched at the loud, hissing pop that came through the earwig. He had to stop himself from looking around. Under Eve’s hand, his fist clenched, and he did dart a glance up, though he didn’t see anything in the darkness.

“Secondary teams moving in,” Danielle said calmly, and Q relaxed. That was almost too easy, he thought silently.

“Visual confirmation,” Alec said.

“Returning to standby,” Bond added, his voice smug with a familiar satisfaction.

That was about when Q realised that not only was Bond coming home to his fantasy of Q wearing hand-picked formal wear, but he’d be doing it while in post-mission mode. His silk-covered toes curled inside his shiny shoes and he couldn’t hide a grin.


	4. Chapter 4

“We haven’t lost it,” Alec said as he and Bond met up by the back staircase. The doorway was narrow, forcing Alec to turn sideways to get all his gear through.

Bond followed, grinning. “You realise we could never _intentionally_ recreate that shot, right?”

“Oh, Christ no. But if anyone asks, we did it through planning and skill, not sheer luck.”

Bond laughed through a cloud of smoke, bracing his hands on the railings of the steep spiral staircase. Their boots echoed loudly; even the back hallways of the theatre were empty except for the representatives of at least three government agencies who’d descended on the place, once the event was over. The janitors were probably out in the rain, freezing their arses off. They should be glad they wouldn’t have to deal with blood and brains, though they’d probably wonder who’d taken the carpet.

No evidence. That was the mission protocol. As far as anyone was concerned, the mission never happened. No assassin ever entered Barbican Hall. No one died here tonight.

It was perfect.

At the foot of the stairs, one of the field agents in a dinner suit was waiting for them. The youngster touched his ear. “I have — _Ow!_ ” he yelped, dropping his hand to look mournfully at Bond.

For good measure, Bond smacked his head again. “Don’t they teach these puppies anything?” he demanded of Alec, looking right and left down the hallway. There was an exit sign far off to the right, so he started walking that way, cigarette leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.

“Not a damned thing,” Alec said agreeably. “You want to meet tomorrow?”

“Dinner,” Bond said, thinking that this was the first time he’d ended a mission on home soil, in the same city as Q. “Late dinner.”

Alec shot him a knowing grin. “Right, then,” he said agreeably, and got his mobile out of one of his belt pouches.

Bond glanced over, watching Alec search through his address book. When Alec stopped on ‘Moneypenny, Eve’, Bond grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“Hm?” Alec asked as he put the mobile to his ear.

“Who do you think picked out her clothes for tonight?”

“You’re a bloody fashion designer now?”

Bond grinned. “I know people who _are_ fashion designers. Besides, I know what colours look best on her — and off her, if you’re lucky enough to get to that point. So you’re welcome. Especially if you make it past the dress without her shooting you.”

“Hmm. Definitely a late dinner,” Alec said, and then grinned. “Eve, darling. It’s Alec...”

 

~~~

 

Q wanted to wait at Barbican Hall for Bond to wrap up the operation, but Moneypenny had been quite insistent. He’d let her drive him home, with a promise to show off any new waistcoats he bought on their next evening out together. Soon, Q was left standing in front of the apartment building trying to decide what to do next.

He could go upstairs, get a drink, and wait around for Bond to get back. But he knew himself well enough to know that he’d probably end up tinkering or doing something that would put the suit in danger. Hell, if he even just sat on the couch, watching telly and drinking tea, he’d probably end up making his first spill of the night.

But there was nothing for it. He couldn’t go for a walk — it was London in the spring, and Q didn’t have an umbrella. He’d had enough socialisation to last him a lifetime, so going to a shop or somewhere else to stave off impatience wasn’t going to happen. So he calmly walked inside, grinning to himself at the impressed look the doorman gave him, and decided that the cooking apron he’d jokingly bought Bond would work perfectly well for what he had in mind.

Which is why, when Bond walked in several hours later, he was greeted with the sight of Q, still in formal wear (minus the overcoat and scarf), wearing a Psycho-inspired apron, welding gloves, and his prescription protective eyewear hunched over his latest project.

Q barely had time to put down the welder before Bond had the door closed and locked. Q heard the _thud_ of a bag hitting the foyer floor. Bond headed into the living room to the sound of tearing velcro. He ducked out of his matte black body armour and tossed the chestpiece aside.

“Off,” was all Bond said, throwing the body armour to the carpet. He shot a death-glare at the apron and welding gloves.

Q grinned as he ripped his gloves off and started fumbling with knot at his apron. “And here I thought you’d be impressed that I’d gone to such lengths to protect this investment of yours.” He got the knot undone and held up the apron as a shield.

Bond advanced, looking absolutely predatory in his black fatigues, still sporting dark smudges across his forehead and cheeks. “You aren’t coming anywhere near this thing until you get that black paint off your face. I’m not going through a second fitting just because you’re impatient.”

Not about to be stopped by an apron, Bond snatched at the fabric and fought it out of Q’s hands, grinning as Q laughed. The apron went the way of the body armour, and Bond combed his fingers into Q’s hair to hold him still for a playful kiss, careful to keep two inches of air between the still-perfect dinner suit and the black fatigues.

“If someone wouldn’t have ended up dead tonight, I would have quit my bloody job just to sit with you tonight,” Bond told him between kisses and gentle nips. “That was the longest two and a half hours of my damned life, Q.”

“You wouldn’t have actually enjoyed it, except for the part about sitting next to me, I think. The music was okay, but the company was dreadful,” Q replied with a smile, trying to kiss Bond properly despite the clunky interference of the goggles. He pushed Bond back, still grinning. “Hold on, let me find my glasses.”

Q got rid of the protective goggles, but as soon as he turned to get his glasses, Bond was on his back, hands buried in his hair to pull it up, baring the nape of his neck. Bond’s teeth closed on Q’s skin, and Q picked up the glasses, only to drop them again.

“Bond,” Q chastised, reaching for the glasses again. “I have to admit, I thought you’d want to actually _see_ my shiny new outfit when you got home.” He finally managed to get his glasses on, and turned to look at Bond. “I’m not putting it on again once we get naked.”

“You’re not taking off a single piece of that,” Bond said agreeably. He kissed the teeth-marks on Q’s neck. “I didn’t bother to shower after the debriefing. You’ll just have to watch.” He stepped back, hands moving to Q’s shoulders. “I watched you the whole time, after our target was down.”

Q tipped his head, watching Bond carefully. This absolutely wasn’t what he expected from Bond when he got back. He looked oddly cheerful, which was completely out of character for the circumstances. “Are you all right?” he asked cautiously. “You seem —”

“I’m here, with you wearing that, instead of in some bloody hotel room halfway around the fucking world,” Bond interrupted, looking up to meet Q’s eyes for only an instant before he went back to apparently memorising every inch of Q’s body.

 _Oh_. Well, when he put it that way... Q’s grin returned and he grabbed Bond’s hand to drag him towards the bedroom. “I’d kiss you for that, but I’m afraid that if we started snogging now, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from getting quite rumpled indeed.” He stopped in their bedroom and stepped aside, opening the path to the bathroom door, and struck a pose like he’d seen some of the models strike in the online ads he’d found while researching. He stuck his hands in his pockets, braced his foot at knee height on the wall behind him, leaned back, and turned to give Bond what hoped was a smoky, seductive look. “Don’t take too long.”

Bond’s amusement faded, and his eyes took on a dark, possessive quality. He turned away from the shower, taking two steps back to Q. He lifted one hand, fingertips just touching Q’s jaw, brushing with gentle pressure along the bone. “If this is your way of convincing me to never let you leave the flat dressed like this again, it’s working,” he warned.

Q closed his eyes and tipped his head into Bond’s hand, surprised by the shift in mood. He thought he was going to going to get laughed at, not admired. To hell with worrying about what was probably a water-soluble face paint. He leaned in for what was his favourite kind of kiss from Bond — hot, slightly rough, entirely possessive.

Bond took the kiss but kept Q apart from him by that last inch, holding him by the jaw as he licked into Q’s mouth and stole his breath. His other hand moved up Q’s side, pressing through too many layers of fabric, before it slipped low on Q’s back. The hem of the dinner jacket was one solid piece, without the vents that Q’s other suits had; Bond rucked the jacket up two inches to get his hand on Q’s arse.

“I could just look at you like this for hours,” Bond said, pulling back from the kiss to meet Q’s eyes. His fingers moved up from Q’s jaw to his lips.

“Like what you see?” Q tried for seductive but it just came out breathless. Despite the bantering on their first date, Q wasn’t exactly a fan of the idea of being tied down... but the idea of Bond slowly worshipping him while he lay there, not actually having to do anything, was surprisingly appealing.

Bond laughed, covering Q’s mouth with his fingertips for a moment. He leaned in to nip at Q’s jaw, careful to stay clear of the pristine white shirt collar. Then he stepped back, pulling Q with him, and turned Q to lean against the bathroom counter. “If I told you to stay here while I shower, would you?” he asked, moving to bite Q’s ear.

Q stole a quick look at the shower to make sure that he had good line of sight. He suddenly wasn’t in the mood for witty conversation or playful teasing. “Yes,” he said simply, shifting back into a more comfortable position. “Just don’t tease.”

After one last kiss, Bond stepped back and started the shower. He crouched to unzip his boots, stepped out of them, and unclasped his belt. He slid it off, catching each of the pouches arrayed between the belt loops, and handed each one back to Q. “This counts as inventory check-in, doesn’t it?” he asked over his shoulder as he dropped the now-empty belt on top of his boots.

“If you don’t mind that I grab my tablet and check everything in, yes it does,” Q answered honestly. Location of check-in wasn’t important whatsoever; returning the items and getting a signature was. As long as Q returned everything tomorrow (or the next day, or whenever he got back to the office, he thought smugly), it would be one less thing they had to worry about.

Instead of agreeing immediately, Bond looked Q over as if he were reluctant to let Q leave his sight for even a few minutes. Q fought the urge to shuffle, twitch, or move in any way while Bond stared at him. That look lit a fire somewhere deep in Q’s mind, and he didn’t want to do anything to make it stop. Finally, though, Bond nodded and went back to undressing, dropping more of his own gear — knife, wallet, cigarettes, and lighter — on the bathmat before he tossed his shirt aside.

Whereas Q would have normally run off to grab his tablet, he knew instinctively that wasn’t something he should do in his current outfit, in this particular moment. He strode slowly out of the bathroom to retrieve both his tablet and one of the empty plastic boxes he kept around for spare parts. His shoes clicked loudly on the hardwood floor — a sound he’d come to associate with Bond, not himself — and it made him smile. He walked back into the bathroom and pulled the door closed behind him, remembering someone once telling him that the best way to unwrinkle a suit was to let it hang in a steamy bathroom while he took a shower.

Q could feel Bond’s eyes on him as he set the box on the counter and leaned back against it. He didn’t return the gaze, instead focusing on pulling up the offsite check-in lists he’d set up just for occasions like these. Methodically, he inspected each item for damage (for once, finding most of Bond’s equipment in perfect condition) and logged its name and status on the sheet before placing it in the box. “I’m impressed,” he said calmly as he worked. “Everything is in perfect condition, for a change. Too bad there aren’t more opportunities for missions at the symphony.”

“I could look for work at MI5, but I have one or two enemies there,” Bond said, dropping his trousers and pants on top of his boots. He braced a hand on the wall to strip off his socks. “There’ve been some incidents.”

“We’ve already decided MI5 isn’t for you, remember?” Q said absently before realising it was actually quite likely that Bond didn’t remember, tired and stressed out as he’d been during that particular conversation. “Not enough actual assassination duties, too many young royals to impress.” He looked up and grinned, thinking of the Israeli adventure of several months ago. “Besides, I don’t think I could inflict you on London full time.”

Q finished the last of his inventory, even going so far as folding and placing the urban warfare outfit and boots in the tub. He’d put the body armour in there, too, but later. For now, he opened the door just long enough to shove the box out into the bedroom, tablet on top, before slamming it shut again. He watched Bond wash, regretting the obscured view through the steam and shower doors, and let his mind wander, letting the warmth soothe him.

The water shut off. Bond opened the door enough to grab the nearest towel. He threw it over his head, ruffling it through his hair and scrubbing at his face, before he wrapped it around his shoulders. Then he stepped onto the bathmat, and Q automatically looked back at him. For a moment, the sight was almost surreal, old scars and muscles and wet skin, and it took Q a moment to realise he was searching for injuries — the bruises and cuts and burns that always signalled the end of a mission, but there were none.

“Undamaged skin, undamaged equipment... you must have been terribly bored this mission,” he teased. He considered telling Bond that if it took him wearing this ridiculous formal wear to get Bond and the equipment back undamaged, he’d do it every single time.

“I got to work with Alec, and I got to watch you,” Bond said, drying off with quick efficiency. “And Alec may end up dead by tomorrow morning.”

Q straightened from his leisurely position at the counter with alarm. “What? Why?”

“Eve.”

That explained the smirk Moneypenny had given him when she dropped him off, with a quip about successful Double O’s. “If he’s after Eve, no need to worry. I don’t think she’ll give him too much of a fight. In fact, I think she was counting on his... attempts to charm her. Said something about being dressed for dancing, now that the stuffy part of her evening was over.”

Bond grinned. “I told her to get some use out of the parts of her outfit you wouldn’t appreciate.” He threw the towel over the rack and ignored the way it slid right back down to the floor in favour of going right to Q. “I’m going to think of every excuse humanly possible to get you into this again,” he warned, lifting his hands to cup Q’s face. “Too bloody perfect like this — especially knowing what’s underneath.”

Q smiled beatifically up at him. “You know, I did feel more like a spy tonight than I ever have before, thanks to this little bit of social armour. Everyone who looked at me saw nothing but another administrator like them — powerful in an abstract way, but not terribly interesting on the whole. I sat there thinking that if I had a computer, I could bring their worlds down around their ears, and they’d never guess it was me.” Q twisted his head to kiss the side of Bond’s hand before turning back to look him in the eye. “I think I understand now, a little better at least, why you dress like you do.” He moved one of his hands to Bond’s upper arm, tracing the muscle with admiration as he spoke.

Surprise flashed across Bond’s expression before he grinned. “All right, genius. If that’s the case, tell me why I love coming home to you.”

The realisation was instantaneous and proof that Bond wasn’t just keeping Q for entertainment value or because they were in love, even if they had trouble admitting it. It was something more for them both — something safe and fundamental and real, something they both hid away under the mask of Double O agent and Quartermaster.

“Because you used to wear that camouflage everywhere, even when you came back here,” Q said with quiet conviction. “Now you don’t. Not just for sex, but for watching telly and cooking breakfast and watching me tinker while you read a book. Because you don’t put it on again, even when we leave the flat, until we go back to MI6. You wear jeans and t-shirts and —” Q couldn’t help but smirk “— leather gloves and jackets. But you don’t put on the suit again until we have to go back to work.”

Bond _always_ had a comeback. Q had listened in despair as Bond taunted his enemies, challenged his captors, mouthed off to section chiefs, and even snapped at third-world so-called diplomats who probably could’ve ordered him before a firing squad if he’d let them get a word in edgewise.

Now, though, he just stared at Q, masks stripped, as if stunned that Q had actually _considered_ him so deeply, so quickly. The touch of his hands on Q’s face gentled until Q barely felt his callused fingertips. Then he leaned in and said, almost too quietly for Q to hear, “I love you,” before his lips touched Q’s.

Q wrapped his arms around Bond tightly, not caring if any remaining water from Bond’s body damaged the suit or the silk tie. This wasn’t the first time Bond had told Q he loved him — but it was the first he’d said it fully aware, fully rational, and not under the influence of the deepest stress or sleep deprivation. He kissed Bond back fiercely, appreciatively. When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily, foreheads pressed together. “I love you, too.”


End file.
